


In Case of Emergency

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes discovers the perfect remedy for a bad day.  To Watson's dismay, it involves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Case of Emergency

Sherlock Holmes's moods could be as changeable as the weather on a Spring day. At one moment the sunniest of fellows, the very next could see him plunged into the blackest of foul tempers. It was the latter nervous state, then, in which I found my friend one Monday morning which was, appropriately enough, a Spring one. I had risen late, and not made it down to breakfast before nine o'clock. Holmes was still seated at the table, his head bent over that morning's edition of The Times.

“Good morning, Holmes,” I said, brightly, as I took my place across from him.

“It is not a good morning at all,” said he, looking up, scowling and mutatious. “In fact, it is perfectly foul and I quite wish that it were afternoon already.”

“Oh dear,” I replied. “What has happened?”

“This,” he pointed to an indeterminate spot on one page of the newspaper. “That,” he gestured in the direction of Baker Street, which was drizzling and grey-skied. “And all of the rest of it,” he concluded in an offended tone, waving both hands at either side of his head.

I tried my best to understand. “You are unhappy with an editorial, the weather, and things in general?”

Holmes nodded. He glared at the breakfast crockery. I waited patiently for my friend to continue. When nothing appeared to be forthcoming, I prompted him gently.

“Come on, spit it out, Holmes,” I said.

Well. It was after nine in the morning, and I was in urgent need of breakfast.

A teaspoon spun across the table towards me, and clattered to the floor. Holmes had now folded his arms and was staring mutely out of the window.

“Please,” I added. I poured a cup of coffee, noting with relief that the pot was still warm.

My friend pointed again towards the impertinent newspaper article.

“Ratskeller the poisoner has called me a 'ninnymuggins' in print. In _print_ , Watson. It is too much.”

“Why did he call you a ninnymuggins?” I wondered.

Holmes jabbed fiercely at the paper with his forefinger. “Because he's a big sausagehead, that's why.”

I sighed. “Come, my dear fellow, we are not in the schoolyard now. There is no need for this sort of talk. Why is Ratskeller a big sausagehead?”

“Because I solved the case, and he was arrested, and _instead_ of complimenting me on a job well done, he was _rude_ to me. Rude to me _and_ about me.”

“That is hardly surprising,” I replied, “seeing as how you were the one responsible for his incarceration.”

“It is still bad sport, Watson,” said my friend. “Ergo, he is a sausagehead.”

“Very well, then,” I said, shutting my eyes and rather wishing that I had never embarked upon this ridiculous conversation. “So there is that, and the weather also vexes you. What is the third area of complaint?”

Holmes exhaled; it was a loud, long and anguished exhalation that hinted at untold woes and inner turmoil.

“The scrambled eggs are cold and the sugar bowl has ants,” he said, having finally taken breath.

I peered into the nest of crockery in the middle of the table.

“So it has,” I mused. “Cheeky little fellows.”

Holmes drilled his fingers upon the table in impatience. He looked at me through narrowed eyes.

“Watson, I am having a bad day,” he said, slowly. “Please do not make it any worse.”

“Every problem has a solution,” I told him. I stood up from my chair, picked up the sugar bowl and the offending food dish, and walked down to see Mrs. Hudson. Within ten minutes I was back with my friend, carrying with me a clean sugar bowl and a fresh plate of hot scrambled eggs. These I deposited in front of him, and, after a ruffle of his incredulous head, sat back down to my own breakfast.

“Watson,” he began.

“Yes, Holmes,” I said, dryly, “we now appear to have fresh sugar and eggs. It is magic.”

“No,” he said, “never mind the sugar and the eggs. What you just did, just then.” He hesitated.

“What did I do?” I asked, puzzled. I scooped up some eggs, and chewed on them with pleasure. “What?” I repeated, for Holmes was looking at me strangely.

“You did this,” he said, and mimed a hair ruffle.

“Yes, I am sorry, I did it without thinking,” I said, apologetic.

“No, I liked it,” said Holmes. “Do it again.”

I looked at him. My jaw was uncertain whether to keep working on the eggs or simply stop still.

“I beg your pardon? You wish me to... ruffle your hair again? Are you quite serious?”

He nodded. “It felt nice,” he said. “And it made me feel better.”

I leaned forward and ran fingers and thumb through his crown; he bowed his head slightly to grant me easier access. I withdrew, a little awkward.

“Good gracious, Holmes,” I smiled, “you are not a terrier. You should not require petting in order to feel happier about your day.”

“I am well aware of the fact,” said he, still in obvious bliss, “and yet here I am, already twelve times more optimistic about the state of the morning than I was scarcely a minute ago.”

“That... that is good,” I said. “I am happy that I was able to help. Now do have some eggs while they are still hot, Holmes.”

By the midday my friend was whistling Mendelssohn's Lieder, and cheerfully replying to the outstanding correspondence harpooned to the mantel. At two o'clock we were summoned to meet Inspector Lestrade at the scene of a domestic disturbance. I regret that there were two bodies; neither of which I shall describe for you in any detail, dear reader, out of consideration for your peace of mind and your stomach. Holmes swiftly became despondent from the lack of any substantial evidence. He ogled inanimate items with his magnifying lens, and flung himself down upon the threadbare rugs to examine their shedding tassels. Eventually I found him in some vexation at my side.

“Watson,” said he, “I find that I am in want of another headrub.”

“What, here?” I replied, in some alarm. “Lestrade is standing by the door; he will surely observe.”

Holmes frowned. “I do not care,” he said. “I am unhappy and I need a ruffle.”

“Then it shall have to be a quick one,” I said. I rubbed and scratched at his black locks. He all but purred in pleasure and relief. I counted us fortunate that Lestrade was by then examining his pocket-watch and not focused in our direction, for he would have surely thought us as madder than March hares.

“Better?” I asked my friend.

“Much,” said he. He galloped off into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, Holmes had discovered not only a burned fragment of a letter but also a discarded razor-blade with much evidence on both. Lestrade was effusive; my friend's response was scarcely modest.

Back at 221B, Holmes sat in his armchair and drew contentedly upon his pipe.

“I think I might not have found those items had it not been for your intervention,” he said, smiling in my direction. “I must have you at every crime scene from now on, in the event that I require similar stimulus.”

“Holmes,” I said, “if you think that I intend to tag along merely as provider of emergency hair ruffles, then you are a greater lunatic than even I had taken you for.” I sat down opposite my friend, and looked him square in the eye.

Holmes opened his mouth to argue. “But --” he began.

“In any case,” I continued, “I already do accompany you a great deal of the time, in case you had forgotten.” I thought for a moment. “Might a clap on the back not suffice? Or an encouraging word?”

“What do you have against hair ruffles?” asked my friend, indignantly. “You were the one who started all this, let me remind you.”

“I know,” I said. “And now I am heartily regretting it. It is very odd behaviour when carried out with any regularity, Holmes. Surely you must realise that?”

Holmes frowned, as though considering certain factors. He began to count off upon his fingers, and a slow smile lit up his face.

“Let us bargain,” said he. “Hair ruffles upon demand on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The remaining four days of the week I shall make no such requests. In return, I shall play you any violin Airs of your choosing.”

“Mondays and Thursdays only,” I said, wondering how on earth I could have become engaged in such a bartering system.

“Done,” said Holmes. He sat back in his chair in deep satisfaction.

So, if you should spot me with Mr. Sherlock Holmes on either a Monday or a Thursday, and I am ruffling his hair to his intensest of pleasures, please do not take alarm. It is merely his special day, and at his request, and for his personal comfort and inspiration. I have since come to consider myself very honoured to provide such an important benefactory service.


End file.
